


melting like an ice-cream

by ninepointeight



Category: Men's Basketball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninepointeight/pseuds/ninepointeight
Summary: “Now, I know this is an unorthodox approach, but,” she continues ominously, and, oh, Kyrie is ready for some bullshit to come out of her mouth–“We would like you guys to be in a fake relationship.”
Relationships: Kyrie Irving/LeBron James
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	melting like an ice-cream

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i wrote another abo fic...i'm addicted to this universe sorry. i feel like the fake relationship trope is perfect for nba media and i couldn't help myself hahahahha. anyways i hope you guys enjoy this! it's completely self-indulgent tho :-)

Kyrie doesn’t really know how it started, to be honest. Or _why_ , actually. He racks his brain and the only explanation he can come up with is that Lebron is a naturally warm person.

Yeah, warm. That’s the word. Not quite affectionate, but…warm.

Lebron likes to act like everybody’s older brother, in that way. Always keeping an eye out for ‘his boys’ and teaching them whatever he can about winning, about losing. About taking care of your body, about talking to the media. About everything, really.

So nobody really bats more than an eyelash when the casual terms of endearment start rolling from Lebron’s tongue. It doesn’t happen that often, just an occasional “hey, boo,” to Kevin when he arrives at practice, or “good job, dear,” after J.R. has one of his phenomenal games. Kyrie twists his ankle in the middle of a match, and Lebron drops down on the bench next to him at half-time with a concerned look and an earnest, “you good, darling?”

Look– Kyrie can’t really help it when his heartbeat rapidly speeds up in response. He has to remind himself that everybody gets these little tidbits of Lebron’s tenderness from time to time. Kyrie isn’t special. He repeats this to himself like a mantra as he tries his best to grin nonchalantly at Lebron. “Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

(“Well,” Kevin tilts his head thoughtfully at Kyrie. “But you have to admit; you get them a lot more frequently than the rest of us.”

“Wha– no, I don’t,” Kyrie huffs back, cheeks flushing.

“Yuh-huh,” Kevin counters, smiling slowly. “Bron busts out the real sappy ones for you, too. Let’s see, there’s cupcake, baby, doll, love, princess, darling–”

“Stop talking, Kevin.”)

Kyrie shakes his head, trying to clear the conversation he had with Kevin last week from his mind. He has got to stop giving himself false hope like this.

So he tries his best to put the whole ‘Lebron calls the team cutesy pet names’ thing at the very back of his mind. It becomes background noise over time, just another one of Lebron’s Things That He Does, soft and quiet and natural.

Nobody knows about it other than the team and staff, either. Lebron is always exceedingly careful with his words around the media, and God knows they don’t need more relationship speculation to go with all the dramatics that already come with the season.

And on that note– Kyrie is proud of his orientation, he truly is. But he gets really, really fucking tired of all the bullshit that comes with it sometimes. According to the gossip sites, he’s already successfully seduced half the team with his “wily omega charms” and is ardently trying to climb into bed with the other half. It’s disturbing as well to see how his friendships with KD and Jimmy are portrayed.

It’s the worst with Lebron, though. Probably because the media is absolutely obsessed with him– how he’s such a pure, dominant, superior alpha, oh, how could any omega, let alone Kyrie, not be constantly drooling over him? Well, there is a grain of truth to that, but still. One has to wonder when ESPN will stop running those sensationalist segments about whether or not Lebron has claimed Kyrie yet. (It’s irrelevant that Kyrie is _also_ wondering when that will finally happen.)

The point is, they’re careful around the media. Kyrie, especially, as an omega.

He sits down for his post-game interview in the locker room that night a bit exhaustedly. They won, but not prettily by any means; it was a grueling game. Somebody shoves a microphone and camera in his face as he leans back against the lockers.

“Kyrie, the defense looked like it was really struggling towards the end. Why do you think that is?”

Kyrie squints at the bright light pointed into his eyes and resists the urge to yawn. He can see Lebron rummaging through his gym bag behind the cameraman out of the corner of his eye. “Well,” Kyrie says slowly, “I definitely think we need to work on getting back quicker in transition–”

“Hey, Ky, do you know where I put my mouth guard case?” Lebron cuts Kyrie off mid-sentence, voice echoing. He must be really tired as well, that he would interrupt Kyrie in the middle of an interview like that.

Kyrie looks to the side, where Lebron already watching him steadily and waiting for an answer. “Side pocket on the left, Bron,” he says.

Lebron does as Kyrie tells him and makes an ‘aha!’ noise that is annoyingly endearing when his finds what he’s looking for. The side of Kyrie’s mouth quirks up into a small, fond smile.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Lebron calls.

“You’re good,” Kyrie replies, and turns back to the camera. “Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly, but the reporter in front of him doesn’t look annoyed. She’s looking at him with something akin to bewilderment in her expression, and Kyrie blinks back at her, confused. Does he have something on his face?

The rest of the interview runs smoothly, more or less, though there’s a strange undercurrent to it that Kyrie can’t quite put his finger on. There are a couple times when there is a lull in the questions that the reporter opens her mouth like she wants to ask something, only to close it again after a few moments. Kyrie notes this faintly but doesn’t think too much of it, thanking her politely when the interview is over and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

It’s only when he’s gotten home and is munching on a slice of leftover pizza, that he realizes it. He’s replaying the events of the day in his mind, and one word echoes around in his ears–

Lebron had called him sweetheart. And there’s no way the microphone hadn’t picked it up.

Shit.

*

Kyrie makes the mistake of opening Twitter the following morning as he pours out his cereal. He’s slightly bleary after a night of uneasy sleep, but the insanely high number notifications he has makes the sleep disappear from his eyes.

He’s almost scared to click on his most recent mentions. The reality, however, is somehow even worse than what he was expecting. Not that he knows what he was expecting at all. A lot of the tweets are unintelligible messes of letters that are probably supposed to resemble screeching, but Kyrie is still able to gather some important facts after a few minutes of scrolling.

1) A clip of Lebron very clearly and very audibly calling Kyrie “sweetheart” has gone viral, 2) the Internet is losing their shit over it in a mostly good way, and 3) people ship them. Lots of people. Probably more people than Kyrie is comfortable with, to be honest.

He ends up just putting his phone away before he sees something that scars him for life. Kyrie finishes his cereal in silence, trying instead to think about the plays he wants to run in practice later. He does a good enough job of keeping it off his mind until he makes it to the gym, walking into the locker room where a decent number of the team is already hanging out.

Tristan and J.R. look up when Kyrie arrives and start snickering. “Ooh,” J.R. sing-songs, “someone’s in trouble.”

Kyrie frowns at them as he puts his bag down, confused. “What are you talking about?”

As if on cue, someone clears their throat behind him. Kyrie turns around to find Melissa, the team’s main PR person, standing in the doorway and looking at him. “Kyrie,” she says, “could you join us in my office, please?”

Kyrie blinks at her for a second. “I– oh, yeah, sure,” he stutters. He turns to give J.R. a questioning look, who just grins at him and gives him a big thumbs-up. Fuck, this can’t be good. Kyrie makes his way to the door; Richard claps his shoulder in a silent ‘good luck, kid.’

Melissa’s heels click crisply against the porcelain tiles of the facility as she leads the way. Kyrie stuffs his hands in his pockets and thinks about what he could possibly be needed for– okay, who is he kidding. What _else_ could he be needed for?

So he isn’t surprised when Melissa swings open the door to her office, and Lebron is already sitting in one of the chairs in front of her desk. It looks sort of ridiculous partly because Lebron is way too tall and big for the chair, but he’s also pouting like a nine year-old kid. He looks up when they enter, and has the decency to look slightly apologetic as he meets Kyrie’s eye.

Kyrie sends him a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and drops down in the seat next to him. Melissa settles down at her desk and folds her hands in front of herself primly, forearms resting on the tabletop. She sort of reminds Kyrie of an evil kingpin boss, from one of those mob movies.

He glances around the room uncomfortably. There are only two other people sitting on the side, typing on their laptops– also PR people, probably. “So,” Melissa starts, a pleasant but placating smile on her face, “you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “I’m assuming you have already seen the…reactions to Kyrie’s interview last night.”

Both of them nod mutely.

“Right,” Melissa clears her throat. “Well, the thing is. The public seems to be incredibly enamored with the idea of you two together. It’s getting the franchise really great increased positive publicity, viewership, and projected revenue streams.” She pauses briefly.

“Now, I know this is an unorthodox approach, but,” she continues ominously, and, oh, Kyrie is ready for some bullshit to come out of her mouth–

“We would like you guys to be in a fake relationship.”

Kyrie hears the words, but they don’t make much sense. He stares at her uncomprehendingly. She stares back.

Lebron stays similarly silent next to him, and Melissa shifts uneasily in her chair. Kyrie isn’t even sure he’s breathing. “It doesn’t have to be for long,” Melissa adds quickly, “just until public interest dies down a bit. And, may I add,” she looks between the two of them, “the video is quite incriminating. I’m not sure what alternative explanations there are for it that people would actually believe.”

Kyrie wants to burst into hysterical laughter. Is he really hearing this right now? The last time he checked, his life isn’t a shitty romcom. But Melissa is looking at him, expression slightly sympathetic but nonetheless serious.

He turns to gauge Lebron’s reaction to this, except Lebron is already looking back at him, a peculiar emotion on his face. Kyrie studies Lebron for a moment, not understanding what his vaguely imploring look means. He narrows his eyes at Lebron’s face; he would almost think that Lebron is trying to convey something along the lines of ‘come on, just give it a shot.’

And– wait a goddamn second. Kyrie eyes the beseeching slant of Lebron’s eyebrows.

Lebron _agrees with Melissa._

Kyrie can’t stop his mouth from dropping open. He stares at Lebron almost accusingly. “You too!??” He exclaims, exasperated.

“I just– it makes sense,” Lebron says, though he looks faintly guilty. “I’m sorry for getting us into this mess, Kyrie, I really am. But we’re in it already, so…we may as well try to take advantage of it, you know?”

Kyrie is absolutely speechless. This may sound like a harmless idea for an alpha like Lebron, who has everyone eating out of his palm anyways, but Kyrie is an omega and it’s not that simple for him. Besides, his existing feelings for Lebron are bad and unnecessary enough already; he isn’t really looking to make that part of it worse, either.

“Listen,” Kyrie says. He frowns at both of them, “a fake relationship is a recipe for disaster. There’s no way I’m doing it.” He crosses his arms, “you’re gonna have to find another way to deal with it because _this,_ ” he gestures between himself and Lebron, “is not happening. It’s not happening,” he repeats, “and that’s my final fucking word on the matter!”

*

The locker room just about explodes when they learn about the plan. Richard and Kevin laugh so hard that Kyrie would be worried for them, if he weren’t too busy sulking alone in the corner.

He glares at the overly ecstatic expression on Kevin’s face. God, they’re never going to live this down, are they? As if sensing his train of thought, Lebron looks over to him from where he’s conversing with Melissa. He says one more thing to Melissa, then turns and starts walking towards Kyrie.

“Hey,” Lebron says when he’s close enough, dropping down on the bench next to him. “Lighten up a little, cupcake.”

Kyrie levels him with an unimpressed look, though now he can see the wry twist to Lebron’s grin. “You’re one to talk,” he replies, “it’s your big mouth that got us into trouble in the first place.”

Lebron winces. “Yeah, I’m really sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I don’t think you _were,_ ” Kyrie snorts.

Lebron cracks a smile. “You may be right about that,” he says. “I know this whole situation is just…weird, but,” he holds out a hand, “hey, at least we’re in this together, yeah?”

Kyrie blinks at Lebron’s outstretched hand before he realizes that he’s meant to shake it. He smiles hesitantly up at Lebron and clasps his hand, “yeah,” he replies. Lebron’s palm is warm and rough against his own, and Kyrie’s traitorous heart pounds loudly in his ears. God, he’s pathetic.

When they let go, Lebron gives him a brief summary of what Melissa wants them to do to get this thing off the ground. Kyrie nods and makes vague noises of agreement in all the right places, trying to pretend like he isn’t just staring at Lebron whilst thinking about how sexy he looks when he’s got his serious face on.

They make a few more minutes of small talk after that, and then Coach is yelling at them through the door to get their asses into the gym. Kyrie stands up, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in his jersey.

Richard comes up to him during three-on-three’s. “You okay?” He asks quietly, face creased with concern. He is, of course, referring to Kyrie’s feelings for Lebron– which the entire goddamn team seems to know about, aside from Lebron.

Kyrie smiles at him, slightly tired but grateful. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Hey,” Richard says, clasping his shoulder briefly, “just be careful, okay?”

“It’ll…it’ll be okay,” Kyrie replies, but he isn’t sure how much he actually believes the words even as they leave his mouth.

Richard looks similarly skeptical, but doesn’t say anything and just nods.

The rest of practice is uneventful, for the most part. The only thing out of ordinary is that anytime Kyrie and Lebron get even remotely close to each other, the rest of the guys fall into snickers and loud oohing and ahhing. Geez, Kyrie didn’t realize that he’s on a team filled with elementary school boys. He huffs and tries not to blush, and Lebron just laughs good-naturedly.

He opts out when the others invite him for drinks after practice. It’s been a long, painfully eventful day, and Kyrie just needs to go home and light a scented candle.

He orders take-out for dinner and collapses onto his couch, when he remembers what Lebron said Melissa had told them to do earlier. Hint at their “relationship” on social media, or something.

Kyrie pulls out his phone with a sigh. Opening Twitter feels akin to planning his own funeral, but at least they hadn’t given him a script or anything like that. He can still use his own words.

He gives it a few moments of thought. He ends up just retweeting the original clip and adding his own comment: “Oops, busted. @KingJames”. That’s pretty ambiguous, but suggestively so, right?

A part of him dies inside when he clicks the ‘post’ button. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, terrible but you can’t quite tear your eyes away, as Kyrie spends the next few minutes just staring at his phone and seeing the number of likes, retweets, and replies grow.

It isn’t long before Lebron replies as well. He uses approximately ten of those annoying crying-laughing emojis, and the tweet simply reads “Sorry, babe.” There’s also a row of hashtags that Kyrie skims over; Lebron tweets like a middle-aged suburban mom sometimes. Still, it’s oddly charming and Kyrie pretends that he doesn’t smile dumbly down at his phone as he reads it.

He doesn’t wait to witness the Twitterverse explode again and turns on the TV instead. He lets the sound of some gaudy advertisement for Red Lobster wash over the room as his eyelids begin to droop.

Kyrie is half unconscious by the time he realizes that he should probably explain this whole situation to his dad and sister. Well, that can wait until tomorrow, he thinks hazily, as his eyes close and he falls asleep.

*

He’s going on a date with Lebron.

God, that still sounds weird. He’s _going on a date with Lebron._

Kyrie has only fantasized about this a billion times or so. But still, no matter how far-fetched or wild his imagination ran, he never thought a first date with Lebron could be so…methodical.

Methodical is exactly what this is. They’re sitting in Lebron’s car before the date is supposed to start, but instead of feeling nervous as he should be (since he is, once again just to reiterate, _going on a date with Lebron_ ), Kyrie just feels overwhelmed.

Because Melissa had prepared them notes. Enough notes to fill a manila envelope with. What the fuck. Kyrie flips through the papers in bewilderment; the first page is an incredibly detailed plan of how the date is supposed to progress, penned down to the minute mark. The rest of it is an incredibly long list of ‘rules’– don’t engage the media in any way, allow fans to take pictures freely, remain for at least one hour, and so many more that it makes Kyrie’s head spin.

“Jesus,” Kyrie mutters underneath his breath when he’s done rifling through the pages.

Lebron looks just as out of his depth as Kyrie feels in the driver seat. “Okay, this is a bit…much,” he comments.

“You don’t say,” Kyrie replies, trying to stuff the papers back into the envelope they came in. His brain is suddenly– hot. Too hot. There’s something incredibly overwhelming about this, basically making it official. It’s one thing to flirt on Twitter for a little bit and another entirely to get papped having a romantic dinner together at some cliché upscale Italian restaurant, in what can’t be anything except for a date.

Kyrie can see the headlines tomorrow morning already, on First Take or The Jump or whatever other shitty TV segments there are on ESPN. They’ll say that Lebron finally _tamed_ him, he just knows it. Like Kyrie is some sort of wild animal that needs to be dominated and subdued, just because he’s an omega–

“Hey,” Lebron touches Kyrie’s hand gently, which he hadn’t even realized was trembling. When Kyrie looks over at him, Lebron is watching him with a worried expression. “Kyrie. Are you okay?”

Kyrie sucks in a breath and looks away. He finally gets the corners to line up and shoves the notes into the envelope somewhat viciously. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says to the envelope.

The air is silent for a moment, before Kyrie feels warm fingers clasp his chin and turn his head to the side so that he’s looking at Lebron again. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Lebron says, brow furrowed. “Seriously. I’ll call Melissa right now and tell her that it’s off.”

Kyrie blinks slowly at him, surprised. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Nah, it’s okay,” he says, “I was just– overwhelmed. That’s all. Besides, it’s for the good of the team, yeah?”

Lebron doesn’t look placated; in fact, his frown deepens. “The good of the team isn’t as important as you,” he replies, and, Christ, how could Kyrie’s heart _not_ skip a beat at that? “If you’re uncomfortable with it, then–”

“Really, it’s okay,” Kyrie interrupts. The side of his mouth quirks up into a mildly self-deprecating smile. “I mean, if we stop it now they’ll just find a way to make me the bad guy anyway. We might as well see it through.”

Lebron opens his mouth at that, making to refute, but nothing comes out. They both know that Kyrie is right. Lebron’s frown still hasn’t let up, his hand a searing point of contact where it holds Kyrie’s chin, and Kyrie just desperately wants this weird tension to break.

He leans back in what he hopes is a natural way and cracks a grin. He nudges Lebron playfully, “now stop it with the face, man. Spending time with me can’t be _that_ bad.”

Lebron finally smiles, though he shakes his head too like he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with Kyrie. “It’s not bad at all,” he replies simply, but apparently it’s enough to make Kyrie’s insides turn all warm and mushy anyways.

And then Lebron just sort of looks at him, until Kyrie’s face starts to heat up and he splutters out a defensive-sounding, “what?”

The corners of Lebron’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Nothing,” he replies. He suddenly leans forward, until he’s close– too close. Close enough that Kyrie can catch the faint scent of his cologne on his collar, a hint of alpha pheromones underneath.

Kyrie recoils reflexively in the car seat. He waits for the physical contact but it never comes as Lebron reaches past him to grab the seatbelt, slinging it over Kyrie’s body for him and buckling it with deft hands. Lebron pulls back after he’s done with a grin, and it takes a second for Kyrie to get over the momentary shock.

“Bron, I’m not a kid!” He grumbles. He puffs his cheeks out in a way that doesn’t really help his case.

Lebron chuckles as he turns the key in the ignition. “I’m just trying to be a good date,” he says. The engine rumbles to life, “and hey. Just because there are a million pointless rules doesn’t mean that we can’t have a good time, right?”

His expression is earnest when he turns to look at Kyrie. Kyrie is helpless to smile and echo back, “right.”

The outside of the restaurant is already packed with paparazzi by the time they pull up, probably tipped off by management. Lebron finds a parking spot and turns the ignition back off. “Don’t move,” he tells Kyrie as he unbuckles his own seatbelt and gets out of the car.

A few seconds later, Kyrie’s side of the door opens and Lebron is standing right outside, holding a hand out like Kyrie really needs help dismounting a fucking Lexus. He also sort of wants to roll his eyes at the whole amped-up chivalry dynamic, but he knows the media and Internet will love it.

“Thanks,” Kyrie says and takes Lebron’s hand, mentally bracing himself for the barrage of paparazzi about to come. The cameras flash annoyingly bright and loud as always as they walk into the restaurant. At least five people start shouting questions at them at the same time, but neither of them react. Kyrie’s eye twitches when he remembers Melissa’s notes.

When they get inside, the maître d’ leads them to a relatively private table located right next to a huge window. Nobody is likely to hear what they are saying, but the glass of the window guarantees prime photo-taking opportunities from outside. Very strategic.

The majority of dinner is normal. Kyrie gets some pesto linguini that tastes pretty good, though he periodically sneaks bites of Lebron’s risotto. He figures sharing food is what people in relationships do. The conversation flows smoothly, too, with topics ranging from how the team is doing to gossip they’ve heard around the league to plans for the summer.

Kyrie lets Lebron order dessert, since he’s never had much of a sweet tooth himself. The waiter sets down a plate of chocolate lava cake with two spoons, and Kyrie has to giggle. “Chocolate lava cake? Can this get any more cliché?” He asks.

He looks at Lebron, but Lebron doesn’t laugh. His face remains serious as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Listen, Kyrie,” he starts, and Kyrie startles when he feels Lebron take his hand in his own.

Maybe it’s the dim lighting or just the fact that they’re technically on an actual date right now, but the atmosphere turns that much more pressing and intimate. Kyrie’s eyes are transfixed on where Lebron’s hand completely engulfs his own. Kyrie has pretty large hands, a given considering how he’s a basketball player, but Lebron’s manage to make his look small in comparison.

He lifts his eyes back to Lebron’s. That only makes the sensation all the more pronounced when Lebron turns his hand over and slowly strokes his thumb over Kyrie’s pulse point, the rough pad of his finger dragging over the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. Kyrie shudders at the feeling and bites his lip on instinct. He swears that for a split second, Lebron’s eyes drop to look at his mouth.

“I don’t want to beat a dead horse or anything,” Lebron says, and oh. Right. They had been in the middle of a conversation. “But I just wanted to say again, I’m really sorry for starting this whole thing. I hate that I dragged you along with me right into this mess. I know…I know the media is already pretty hard on you. Is there anything, and I mean anything at all, I can do to make it up to you?”

Kyrie stares at him, slightly taken aback. “I–” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “How many times do I have to tell you, Lebron, it’s fine. I’m not complaining if all I have to do is send some Tweets and have dinner with you sometimes.” He knocks his ankle against Lebron’s underneath the table and grins jokingly at him, “besides, there are probably millions of omegas dying to be in my place right now.”

Lebron hums in response. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts his hand where it’s still clasping Kyrie’s, slow enough as if giving Kyrie the option to back out if he wants to. Kyrie, naturally, is virtually frozen in his seat as he waits to see what will happen next.

Lebron turns his head unhurriedly. He presses a soft kiss to the palm of Kyrie’s hand, lips searing hot. “Well, I’m glad it’s you here and not them,” he murmurs.

Kyrie’s mouth runs painfully dry. His heart is thundering in his ears as he maintains eye contact with Lebron, who is looking at him with his mouth still pressed to Kyrie’s hand and a secretive smile playing at his lips.

And then a camera flashes from outside. Something inside of Kyrie turns cold when he comes back to his senses. Of course that was for the paparazzi to catch. All a part of the plan.

Fuck, this isn’t even a real date. The sooner he remembers that, the better.

He forces himself to laugh nonchalantly. “Wow,” he remarks, “you’ve really got this whole fake relationship thing down to a pat, haven’t you?”

Lebron’s fingers twitch around their hold on Kyrie’s wrist. “You think so?” He says.

“Sure,” Kyrie replies. “I mean, _this,_ ” he gestures vaguely at their position, “has got to make a great cover photo for the front page of TMZ tomorrow morning.”

Something odd passes quickly over Lebron’s face. Before Kyrie can try and discern it, Lebron chuckles and lets go of his hand naturally. “That’s true,” Lebron says, “but I’m serious. Imagine if I had slipped up with J.R. or something.” He shudders at the thought, “I don’t want to take _him_ on a romantic dinner date.”

Kyrie ignores the obvious implication that, well, Lebron doesn’t mind taking _Kyrie_ on one. The image of Lebron and J.R. having a candle-lit dinner is pretty funny, though. Kyrie picks up one of the spoons and points it at Lebron accusingly, “hey, I’m telling him you said that.”

Lebron huffs in amusement and makes a face. “Good,” he says as he takes the other spoon.

They finish dessert in an amicable sort of silence. Kyrie makes a half-hearted attempt to fight for the check when it comes, but he knows that it’s customary for alphas to pay. Sounds like bullshit if you ask him, but whatever.

There’s somehow still paparazzi lurking around when they make it outside. Kyrie hesitates as Lebron fumbles for his keys, then leans up to press a quick kiss to Lebron’s cheek.

He can feel himself flushing when he pulls back down. “Thanks, I– I actually had a good time tonight,” he says.

Lebron looks at him, surprise morphing into a warm smile. “Me too,” he replies. He presses a hand to Kyrie’s lower back, and Kyrie shivers and smiles back.

*

They have a joint post-game press conference a few days later.

Well, it’s ‘post-game’ only in title; everybody knows that it’s actually so the reporters can ask questions about their relationship. Still, Kyrie and Lebron keep a decently respectable distance between them even as they sit down behind the desk.

Kyrie adjusts his baseball cap nervously. He jiggles his knee, restless, and tries to remember Melissa’s instructions from earlier. After a few moments, he feels a warm palm come to rest on his thigh, stopping the rapid up-and-down motion. Kyrie looks down and sees Lebron’s big hand splayed out against his leg, encasing the width of his thigh.

He sneaks a glance at Lebron but Lebron isn’t looking at him, just staring confidently out into the crowd of eager reporters. Kyrie bites his lip to hold back an inexplicable smile and turns his eyes back to the black tabletop.

Surprisingly, the first couple of questions are actually about the game. Kyrie drags out his answers for even longer than usual, trying to delay the inevitable, and Lebron gently pinches him on the knee when he won’t stop droning on. Kyrie pouts, but shuts up.

The next reporter up introduces himself briefly, and then clears his throat. Oh boy, here they go. “This is for both of you,” he says, an excited glint in his eyes. “As you probably know, there’s been quite a bit of speculation surrounding the nature of your guys’ relationship. I was wondering if either of you could just comment on that?”

Kyrie sighs internally. Let Lebron speak first, Melissa had told them. “Well,” Lebron starts slowly. He looks calm and collected, but his fingers tap out an erratic rhythm against Kyrie’s thigh. “I guess this is as good of a time to come clean as any.” He pauses and the group in front of them leans forward eagerly, cameras rolling and tape recorders blinking.

“The truth is,” Lebron says, and Kyrie thinks he imagines it when Lebron’s hand tightens around his leg for a moment. “I’m courting Kyrie right now. I was hoping to keep it low-key, but…hey, maybe this will actually help him officially say yes to me sooner, who knows.”

The reporter grins. “Having any luck so far?” He asks.

Lebron goes along with it. “He’s a hard one to hook, I’ll give you that,” he replies jokingly.

Kyrie doesn’t have to fake how flustered he is at that, though he does play it up a little. “Brooon,” he whines into the microphone and looks down, embarrassed.

Lebron laughs freely, “I’m just kidding,” he says. He reaches over and tips Kyrie’s face back up with two fingers underneath his chin, and the rest of the room aww’s. Wow, they’re really eating this up.

A young woman from TMZ is up next and she smiles broadly at them. “So, I’m asking this on behalf of the Internet,” she says cheerfully. “We’re dying to know: what other pet names do you like to call each other?”

Oh, God, what a nauseating question. Kyrie barely stops himself from making a face when he hears it. Lebron must feel the same way, if the way the corner of his mouth spasms minutely is any indication. His sunny smile doesn’t waver, however, as he answers.

“Well, it would take me forever to list all of them,” he says. “But my favorite is probably ‘cupcake.’ Hmm, well, I like to use ‘honey,’ too.” He pauses, then adds, “‘love’ isn’t bad either. Oh, and also ‘princess.’ Or ‘doll,’ I guess–”

“ _Okay,_ ” Kyrie cuts him off when he realizes that Lebron is probably fucking with him, and would just keep on going like that forever if nobody stopped him. The tips of Kyrie’s ears burn and he presses a hand to Lebron’s chest. “I think we get the idea.”

The young woman, along with the rest of the reporters, watches them with amusement. “What about you, Kyrie?” She asks.

Kyrie thinks it over for a second. Pet names, huh. “Well, I’m not as creative as Lebron,” he replies, mildly troubled. “I just call him his name. Sometimes we call him ‘captain’ or ‘King James’ but,” he claps Lebron’s shoulder. “He doesn’t like that. Can’t imagine why.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Lebron grumbles, and Kyrie laughs.

Lebron does most of the talking for the rest of the press conference. It’s a bunch of standard questions like how long has this been going on, how did it start, and all that good stuff. Kyrie breathes out a sigh of relief when it’s finally all over, all the tension in his shoulders melting away.

The woman from before, who works for TMZ, is waiting for them at the bottom of the short staircase when they exit the stage. “Sorry to bother you,” she says, eyes flitting between them and a blush rising high on her cheeks, “but I just wanted to say that you guys are super cute together! I wish you the best!” She bows politely and scampers away, looking flustered.

Both of them blink at the empty spot in front of them for a moment. “Thank you!” Kyrie calls at her retreating back when he recovers. That was actually…sort of sweet. Lebron’s lips are slightly quirked up when Kyrie turns to look at him.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride home,” Lebron says.

Kyrie quickly salutes him with two fingers. “Aye aye, captain,” he says mock-seriously, and Lebron laughs and shakes his head.

The first thing Kyrie does when he gets home is run himself a nice, hot bath. He eyes his collection of bath bombs and picks a lavender-scented one; he can allow himself to act like a stereotypical omega every once in a while, okay.

As soon as he gets into the tub, his phone chimes with a notification. Kyrie lets his muscles relax and picks up his phone, finding a text message from his sister. He had explained the whole situation to her a few days ago, asking her to pass it on to his dad (he’s not about to talk to his dad about his love life), which she had taken surprisingly well.

 **Asia:** Damn 😂 I just saw ur press conference with Bron  
U better be grateful I stopped Dad from watching it

Kyrie groans and rubs a hand over his face.

 **Kyrie:** it wasn’t that bad!!!  
…was it?

It takes a few moments for a reply to come.

 **Asia:** I’m just saying  
If I didn’t know better I’d think u two are legit in love

Kyrie stares at Asia’s last text until his eyes burn, and then throws his phone onto the rug and dunks his head underwater. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

*

Kyrie goes for a run early the next morning. He doesn’t check his phone until after he’s showered, and he’s standing at the kitchen counter throwing fruit into the blender.

He knows it can only be bad for his blood pressure, but he can’t help but pull up the video of their press conference last night on YouTube. Maybe he just likes to torture himself, he doesn’t know.

The video has already amassed over a million views, even though it was posted just over 12 hours ago. Kyrie’s brow furrows in disbelief as he finishes blending his smoothie and pours it into a glass.

He has to pause the video a minute or so into it; he knows that he’s in love with Lebron, but does he really look at Lebron like that all the time? With the stars in his eyes and everything? Oh, God. He feels slightly nauseous.

It’s only exacerbated when Kyrie makes the mistake of scrolling down to the comments. He should’ve known better than to venture into that territory. The first comment– “THEY’RE SO SOFT I’M CRYINGGGGG” –is normal enough, if not a bit hard on the eyes.

It’s the second one makes Kyrie choke violently on his mouthful of smoothie. “Kyrie calls Lebron ‘king’ in bed confirmed,” someone has written. The worst part is that it has over three thousand likes.

Kyrie scrolls further down, for some reason. The next comment isn’t much better. “Lebron doesn’t like it when Kyrie calls him King James cuz he’s scared he’ll get a boner in public ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”.

Kyrie sets down his phone on the counter silently. Alright, that’s enough for today. He gulps down the rest of his smoothie with some difficulty, then moves to the kitchen sink so he can splash some water on his face. Okay, he never saw that. He never saw that. He _never saw that._

He’s managed to successfully(ish) brainwash himself by the time he takes off to practice. His face immediately heats up when Lebron walks in, but aside from that, everything is pretty normal.

They settle into somewhat of a routine after that. The dinner dates become a semi-regular occurrence, and Lebron really does start to call Kyrie every ridiculous pet name from his list. The first time Lebron greets him with a “hey, baby,” one day, Kyrie flushes up to his hairline and trips over his words when he replies.

It’s the beginning of March when they travel out to the Bay area to play Golden State. Stephen comes up to Kyrie before the game and slings an arm around his shoulders as he starts to talk.

“Hey, I’m really happy for you and Bron!” He says loudly, “but couldn’t you guys wait just two more weeks to get it on? I was so close to winning the entire pot.”

It takes a little while for Kyrie to process that. When he finally does, his mouth drops open. “You guys bet on us!?”

Stephen grins unrepentantly at him. He waves a hand in the air, “it was all in good fun, I swear! Plus, anyone with eyes could tell that you two were bound to get together sooner or later. It was just a matter of when.”

Kyrie’s tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Right,” he croaks. And he already knows the answer, but he asks anyways; “was I really that obvious?”

Stephen looks at him somewhat sympathetically. “Sort of,” he says, “but if it makes you feel better, so was Lebron. I swear he actually burned a hole in Kevin’s skull with how hard he was constantly glaring at him during All-Star Weekend. Not to mention– geez, the sexual tension.” Stephen pretends to fan himself, “I feel bad for your teammates if _that’s_ what they had to deal with every day.”

And, well. That’s certainly some food for thought. Maybe a bit too much food, if Kyrie’s being honest. Fortunately, he’s saved from having to think too deeply about it by Coach yelling at them to get started on warm-ups. He pulls away from Stephen apologetically and jogs back to their side of the court.

It ends up being a pretty close game, but the Warriors pull out the win in the end. Kyrie pouts at the scoreboard for a bit and then turns to make his usual post-game rounds.

He starts going in for the hug with Kevin like always, but Kevin pushes him back gently with wide eyes. Kyrie remembers what Stephen had said earlier and frowns. Predictably, Kevin’s eyes flit around for a moment, as if searching for something (or someone, more like), before he looks back down at Kyrie.

“Woah, woah,” Kevin says, “are you sure your alpha is okay with this?”

Kyrie looks at Kevin in disbelief and scowls. “He doesn’t own me, you know that, right?” The words come out sharper than he intends them to.

Kevin looks at him in surprise. “I– yeah,” he splutters, “sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything like that.”

Kyrie blows out a breath. “Nah, I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I’m sorry,” he says. He spreads his arms, “now come here.”

Kevin leans into the hug this time, though he wraps his arms around Kyrie a bit apprehensively. They wait for the appropriate beat to pass and break apart again.

“But hey,” Kevin wiggles his eyebrows, “you and Lebron. Finally, huh?”

Kyrie winces internally as he says, “yeah, guess we weren’t as subtle as we thought.” He hates having to lie to one of his best friends like this, but Melissa had made it absolutely clear that they can’t risk anybody in the league outside of the team knowing about it.

“Subtle? Not at all,” Kevin smirks, and Kyrie makes a face at him.

Before he can say anything, however, an arm wraps around his waist and he feels a hard body crowding against his side. “What’re you guys talking about?” Lebron appears out of nowhere to ask, voice reverberating in his chest.

When Kyrie turns his head to look up at him, Lebron is staring intently, almost appraisingly at Kevin. Kyrie really wants to roll his eyes, and does; classic alphas. “Just about what a possessive asshole some alphas can be,” he replies loudly.

Lebron finally looks down at Kyrie. “Hey,” he says, offended.

Kyrie smiles sweetly at him. “Never said you had anything to do with it, babe.”

Lebron gives him a look like ‘alright, you little shit,’ and pinches Kyrie’s waist lightly where he’s holding it.

“Oww,” Kyrie complains petulantly, even though it had practically felt like nothing.

“Jesus, you two are nauseating, aren’t you?” Kevin interjects. He’s looking at them in fond amusement, though there’s also an element of disgust in there.

Kyrie sticks his tongue out at him good-naturedly, but he can’t control it when his stomach does a weird swoop. Not for the first time and probably not for the last, either, he wishes it weren’t all just pretend.

*

Stephen and Draymond manage to convince everybody to go out that night. They pull up at some swanky club downtown, and Kyrie goes straight to the bar– he needs some alcohol in him if he’s going to enjoy this. It works out for him because he can admit that he’s sort of a lightweight, which means he doesn’t have to spend as much money on overpriced drinks.

Stephen tries to drag him out onto the dance floor, and Kyrie looks over to Lebron instinctively. For permission, confirmation, or what– Kyrie isn’t sure, exactly. Lebron just grins and mouths at him, “go have fun.”

The next forty five minutes or so is a haze. What initially starts as a circle of people slowly dissolves until everybody is scattered all over the place. Kyrie doesn’t even realize this till the next time he looks up and finds himself in a crowd of unfamiliar faces. The buzz he had going is still pretty strong so he just shrugs and continues swaying along to the bassline, when he feels a hard body press into his from behind.

Whoever it is wraps their arm around Kyrie’s waist and starts grinding against him without much finesse. Kyrie freezes. He briefly weighs his options, and turns around stiffly to see who it is.

It’s a stranger. A tall alpha who is pretty good-looking, Kyrie will give him that much. He would usually be all over that, but even in his slightly inebriated state he knows that he’s technically ‘taken’ right now. The stranger, however, seems to interpret his turning around as an invitation to move closer, sending him a flirtatious smile.

Kyrie smiles back hesitantly. He leans up to speak into the guy’s ear. “Hey, I’m flattered, but, uh…sorry, I’m not really interested right now.”

“Whaaaat?” The guy makes a ‘pfft’ sound and waves one arm dismissively. He stumbles a little when somebody bumps into him, unsteady on his feet. Kyrie’s lips twitch; right, this guy is completely fucked. “Come ooon, baby. I’ll show you a good time.” He drags out his vowels unnecessarily.

Now Kyrie is just amused. He lightly pries the guy’s arm off of his waist without much difficulty. “Tempting,” he starts dryly, “but–”

The guy gets roughly jerked away by a hand on his shoulder before Kyrie can finish saying his witty retort. He frowns slightly at that and looks to the side, only to find Lebron standing next to them with a smile that doesn’t look very friendly at all, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Sorry,” Lebron grits to the guy, who looks disoriented and vaguely terrified. Yeah, Lebron can have that kind of effect on people. Usually on the basketball court, but still. “He’s taken.”

The guy mumbles something unintelligible as he starts backing away. He trips over his own feet but recovers quickly, and gets swallowed by the crowd around them a moment later.

When the guy has disappeared, Kyrie turns his attention back to Lebron and narrows his eyes at him. “Thanks,” he says a bit grudgingly, “but dude. You totally interrupted me in the middle of my witty one-liner. I had that under control.”

Lebron laughs and he steps forward, into Kyrie’s personal space. “I’m sorry,” he says. He leans down next to Kyrie’s ear so he can be heard over the music, “I couldn’t just stand around and watch while some creep hit on my omega.”

A bolt of heat runs through Kyrie when he hears the words “my omega.” And is he crazy, or did Lebron’s voice just drop an entire octave when he said it? He’s glad that the lighting in the club is dim enough that Lebron probably can’t make out the blush staining his cheeks.

Kyrie clears his throat. “I–”

As soon as he opens his mouth, a particularly enthusiastic elbow jams into his back and he stumbles forward–– straight into Lebron’s arms.

Lebron, startled, puts his hands on Kyrie’s waist on instinct to steady him, and Kyrie’s hands fall against Lebron’s chest. They both blink at each other, equally shocked at the abrupt proximity of their faces. He feels Lebron’s strong heartbeat pound underneath his fingertips through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

Kyrie can’t help it when he licks his lips nervously, and suddenly Lebron is staring down intently at his mouth. Lebron’s eyes are dark as his hands tighten around their hold on Kyrie’s waist, and Kyrie shudders.

Oh, fuck, what is happening right now? His alcohol-muddled brain can’t quite make sense of anything. All he knows is that it’s incredibly hot in here, and, okay, wow, is Lebron leaning in right now, that might be a bit too much–

“Can we go outside?” Kyrie blurts out very un-suavely.

Lebron immediately stops moving. He drags his gaze back up to where Kyrie is watching him with wide eyes, and seems to break out of some sort of trance.

“I– oh, yeah, sure, I mean, of course,” he stutters, which is uncharacteristic of him. Well, at least Kyrie isn’t the only one whose brain feels like mush right now. The overwhelmingly loud music doesn’t help, either.

It isn’t hard to squeeze their way through the crowd and out of the club’s entrance. Kyrie takes a deep breath of the crisp night air when they’re outside, and tilts his head at Lebron apologetically.

“Sorry, I just,” he blows the air back out, “I could barely hear myself think in there.”

“It’s okay, same,” Lebron replies and squints at Kyrie. “Wait, you’re not drunk right now, are you?”

Kyrie looks slightly sheepish and lifts his arm to hold his fingers a millimeter apart right in front of Lebron’s face. “Like, only a tiiiny bit.” He pauses, “I’m tipsy. Yeah, that’s the word. Tipsy.”

Lebron shakes his head, but he’s also laughing at the same time. “Alright, you sure are,” he agrees amicably. “We’d better get you sobered up, then. How about we take a walk back to the hotel? It still isn’t that late.”

Kyrie considers this, and nods slowly. “A walk sounds nice,” he says seriously.

Lebron smiles gently at him. “Great,” he says. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches out and takes Kyrie’s hand in his own.

Kyrie watches, mesmerized, Lebron’s long fingers slip between his own, and a broad palm presses comfortably against his. Warmth spreads from the point of contact until Kyrie feels like he’s wrapped tightly in a security blanket, or a pleasant cocoon. He’s pretty sure it’s not just the alcohol, too.

“Kyrie?” Lebron’s voice inquires, sounding amused. Kyrie whips his head back up when he realizes he’s just been staring at their intertwined hands like an idiot. Lebron tugs lightly, and they start walking.

Kyrie coughs. “Sorry, I was just spacing out,” he says, as his eyes wander around, taking in the sights of downtown San Francisco. The sidewalk is bathed in soft light from the street lamps, and there’s something strangely tranquil about the scene.

That is, until Kyrie’s eyes get caught on a brightly-colored sign half a block away. He turns his head to look up at Lebron excitedly, all the embarrassment from earlier effortlessly forgotten in favor of– “Oh my God can we get ice-cream?”

The laughter is evident in Lebron’s eyes when he looks back down at Kyrie. “I thought you didn’t like sweets that much?”

Kyrie scoffs and pulls insistently at Lebron’s hand to walk faster, who abides. “I don’t,” he explains, “but two A.M. ice-cream is different. You know?”

Lebron is silent for a second. “You’re right,” he says eventually, and Kyrie just nods emphatically.

Just as the sign advertised, the place is open 24 hours. Kyrie gets a chocolate-vanilla swirl, already licking at it happily when he gets out his wallet.

The rest of the walk back to the hotel is spent like that; Kyrie chatters away about everything and nothing all at once, gesticulating wildly with his ice-cream cone. Lebron hums easily and swings their hands, still tightly joined together, between them as they walk, like they’re still kids.

*

The playoffs pass by in a blur. The fake relationship business is mostly put on the backburner as they focus on making it to another Finals first. And make it to the Finals, they do– only to lose to Golden State in 6 games.

Okay, Kyrie doesn’t really want to talk about it. It isn’t _that_ bad because nobody had really expected them to win anyway, but it still stings.

With the season coming to an end, Kyrie isn’t surprised when he and Lebron get called into Melissa’s office once again in late June. The difference this time is that none of them are quite as tense as they were all those months ago.

Lebron brushes his knuckles lightly underneath Kyrie’s chin as he walks in. “Hey, babe,” he says, dropping down in the chair next to him. Kyrie doesn’t look up from his phone and murmurs back a greeting absentmindedly.

When Melissa clears her throat in front of them, Kyrie lifts his head only to find her looking between him and Lebron almost…knowingly. He doesn’t think too much of it, however, and slips his phone into his pocket.

“First of all,” Melissa starts, “thank you both for your cooperation over the past few months. The results turned out to be even better than we anticipated; both the team’s and your individual merchandise are selling better than ever.”

Kyrie taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Okay, so what do you need from us?”

“About that,” Melissa hesitates. “Well. We think that the upcoming off-season is the perfect opportunity for you guys to, simply put,” the world almost goes in slow motion when she utters the following two words:

“Break up.”

A beat. An uncomfortable silence drags out for several moments.

Kyrie’s body runs cold when he hears the words. It’s completely irrational, and it sounds stupid now that he’s actually thinking about it– but a (big) part of him had actually forgotten they would ever have to stop this act. He mentally berates himself; how could he be so stupid? Did he really think that him and Lebron could just keep doing this forever? It’s not real. None of it is.

Kyrie’s too upset, mostly at himself, to say anything for the time being. Lebron, strangely enough, also stays mute next to him.

Melissa takes that as a sign to continue speaking. “This would be the least painful and tumultuous time for a split. Logically, I mean. And, the public is still loving you guys together, but the interest has died down somewhat compared to the beginning stages.” Kyrie nods numbly; everything she’s saying makes sense, so why does it feel like somebody just dumped a huge bucket of ice water over his head?

“We just have one last request,” Melissa says. “The ESPYs are coming up– those annual year-end sports awards, you know. We thought it’d be perfect if that could be your last official public appearance as a couple. Go out on a happy note, if you would. It’ll soften the news of a break up over the summer via social media and whatnot.”

Lebron shifts in his seat. There’s an odd quality to his voice when he speaks. “Right, that sounds…reasonable. I’m game.”

There’s another few beats of silence in which Kyrie frowns down at the shiny maple oak surface of Melissa’s desk, until he realizes that they’re waiting for him to answer. “Oh,” he startles, looking up but not at either of their eyes. “Yeah, same. That’s, that’s alright with me.”

Melissa claps her hands together, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Okay, great. I’ll send you guys the details later.”

Lebron and Kyrie walk through the facility to the parking lot with an uneasy silence hanging between them. It only makes Kyrie feel even worse; him and Lebron are never awkward around each other.

But awkward is exactly what it is, especially as Lebron drives Kyrie home like always. Neither of them say anything and Kyrie spends the entire trip staring out the window at the passing scenery, a million things and one rattling around in his brain. He sneaks a glance at Lebron at one point, but Lebron is staring resolutely ahead even though they’re stopped at a traffic light. His hands are clenched tightly around the steering wheel, which makes a vein in his forearm throb, and that’s honestly kind of hot–

Okay, Kyrie shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. He swallows and tears his eyes away.

The main thing that terrifies Kyrie isn’t that he won’t get to have Lebron like he has for the past few months anymore. What terrifies him is that he might not get to have Lebron _at all_ anymore. If things are already so weird between them _now_ (and for what reason exactly, Kyrie still isn’t sure), how bad is it going to be when they’re actually “broken up”?

Kyrie came to terms with the fact that Lebron will likely never love him back the same way a long time ago. But he doesn’t think he can handle not even being Lebron’s friend. Because the truth is that he loves spending time with Lebron. It’s one of his favorite things in the world. And the thought that he might lose that– it’s unpleasant, to say the least.

In the meantime, Lebron is pulling up outside of Kyrie’s apartment complex. The car slows to a stop by the sidewalk, and Kyrie unbuckles his seatbelt gingerly, the sounds of the buckle clicking loud in the small space of the car.

Kyrie opens the car door and steps out. He hesitates for a moment and chances to look back at Lebron. “Uh, thanks for the ride,” he says, “I’ll see you around.”

Lebron nods at him. “Yeah, see you,” he replies, tone completely indecipherable.

It isn’t until Kyrie is watching the back of the car’s tires kick up gravel that he realizes Lebron hadn’t called him a nickname this time.

*

The next time they see each other is 30 minutes before the ESPYs red carpet begins. Management had gotten them an entire limousine for the event, and Kyrie tries not to balk when the car pulls up at the curb and Lebron opens the door for him from the inside.

Kyrie slides into the spacious backseat and looks around in mild awe. There’s even champagne, for crying out loud.

Lebron clears his throat. “Hey,” he says.

Kyrie looks up from where he had been peering into the ice bucket curiously. “Uh, hi,” he replies awkwardly.

The discomfiting mutual silence returns at full force. The partition which separates them from the driver is firmly shut, too, making the space seem even more stifling and oppressive. They don’t say anything as the car starts up again and rolls forward smoothly.

Probably around 5 minute pass, though it feels more like 5 hours to Kyrie, before he hears Lebron sigh heavily next to him, like he’s lost some internal battle with himself.

“Kyrie,” Lebron says, breaking the quiet. His voice is low and gruff, and Kyrie gulps.

“I– yeah?” He replies, staring intently down at his own lap.

Lebron reaches over and takes one of Kyrie’s hands in his own. Kyrie looks up at him, startled, at the familiar feeling. Lebron is already gazing back at him, looking…sort of pitiful, to be honest.

“Listen,” Lebron says sincerely. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting so standoffish lately, there’s just been a lot on my mind. It’s pretty weird that this whole thing is coming to an end.” He pauses. “What I’m trying to say is– I actually had a lot of fun these past few months, and well, this whole situation is a tiny bit strange, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still have a good time tonight. Yeah?”

Kyrie blinks slowly at him, trying to process the semi-word vomit that just came out of his mouth. After a second, the side of his lips quirks up in amusement and he shakes his head fondly. The last question, an echo of what Lebron had said to him on their first ‘date’; the memory brings a familiar pang to Kyrie’s chest.

“I’m sorry, too,” he replies. “I don’t know, I think I was just surprised. I thought I would hate the whole fake relationship thing, but it was surprisingly fun. I couldn’t have asked for a better fake boyfriend.” The words kind of hurt him to even say, and he has to force himself to grin at Lebron playfully. “But hey, I _am_ a little bummed out that I won’t be getting any more free meals.” And there’s the humorous deflection. He had just started wondering where it was.

Lebron pouts at that. “Is that the only reason you keep me around?”

Something inside Kyrie aches. _No, I keep you around because I love talking to you, I love being around you, I love_ you. “Well, you also open doors for me,” he replies instead and Lebron laughs loudly.

The rest of the ride to the event is spent like that making lighthearted conversation. Whenever they risk venturing into heartfelt territory, Kyrie cracks a joke again and changes the subject.

Not before long, the limo stops moving and Kyrie can suddenly hear the heightened sounds of cameras flashing and loud voices shouting outside. Somebody opens the car door on Lebron’s side and all the lights and noise suddenly become much more real. Kyrie resists the urge to shut his eyes and cover his ears like a little kid.

Lebron gets out first, thanking the chauffeur who had opened the door for them. He turns and holds out a hand to Kyrie, and Kyrie–

Kyrie is suddenly breathless.

There’s something extraordinarily fairytale-esque about the whole scene. Lebron always looks good but he’s exceptionally handsome tonight even by Lebron standards, with his tailored suit fitted in all the right places. There’s a bit of stubble dotting his chin that he hadn’t bothered to shave, making him look rugged and sexy at the same time. The worst part, or maybe best part depending on who you ask, is the way he’s looking at Kyrie. His eyes are smiling, crinkled slightly at the corners, and he looks so incredibly _fond_ that it punches all the air out of Kyrie’s lungs.

Kyrie desperately wishes he had a camera. The best he can do for the time being, however, is try and commit this image to memory forever. The inexplicable feeling of sadness hits harder than ever when he abruptly realizes that he will probably never get another moment like this again.

He takes Lebron’s hand, still faintly dazed, and lets himself get pulled out of the car and onto his feet. A strong arm wraps around his waist when he’s upright and they start walking. Kyrie wouldn’t be able to tell anybody in what direction and for what purpose they’re going, still too caught up in his own self-pitying thoughts.

He loosely registers that they come to a stop, and smiles when he realizes that there are about thirty different cameras about to start snapping photos of them. Lebron is warm and solid beside him, but Kyrie’s insides feel cold.

God, this happens every single time. He tries so hard not to get attached– yet Lebron always manages to sweep him off his feet. And before Kyrie even knows it, he’s falling in even deeper. He has never thought of himself as a particularly masochistic person, but Lebron seems to be, as he often is, the exception. When will Kyrie learn his goddamn lesson already?

He cringes at his own pathetic-ness and tries to focus his attention on the task at hand instead. Lebron is leading him down the red carpet with a hand on the small of his back, and they’re approaching a long flight of stairs.

“Are you okay?” Lebron asks quietly as they begin to ascend, “you look kind of tense.”

Kyrie winces. Is he really that transparent? “I’m fine,” he replies half-heartedly, “there’s just, a lot of cameras.”

Lebron looks like he doesn’t quite buy it, but he doesn’t say anything. When they get near the top of the staircase, Kyrie is so caught up on trying to act normal that he accidentally stumbles over a step. Lebron immediately wraps an arm around his waist, other hand curling around Kyrie’s wrist. Kyrie gasps when he feels Lebron pull him in, broad chest pressing tightly against his back.

“Careful,” Lebron says, hot breath tickling the shell of Kyrie’s ear.

Kyrie freezes for one suffocating, heated second. He almost melts into the embrace, too– but at the last second remembers that he can’t keep doing this to himself. He quickly steps away from Lebron, whose hands fall away easily enough. Kyrie makes sure there’s a decent amount of distance between them before he turns around again.

“Ah, sorry,” he laughs uncomfortably, “I wasn’t watching the steps.”

He pretends he doesn’t catch Lebron’s vaguely bewildered and hurt expression when he whirls back around and starts walking towards the dining hall. After a moment, Lebron falls into step next to him silently, and he doesn’t try to initiate another conversation. That doesn’t make Kyrie feel bad at all. It doesn’t.

They find their seats in the audience without much trouble. They’re sandwiched between a bunch of other players in the league, so they greet everybody before settling down in their own seats.

Then they make mindless small talk until the show starts. It isn’t exactly awkward, but it isn’t comfortable, either. Kyrie wants to slap himself when he blurts out some inane remark about the stage decorations. Lebron, bless his soul, just goes along with their bullshit back-and-forth.

The lights dim soon enough, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. John Cena is hosting (strange choice), but he’s surprisingly pretty funny as he makes the grand introductions.

Now, Melissa had given them an(other) packet of notes beforehand (which Kyrie actually read this time), and there’s a cameraman camped out next to their row pretty inconspicuously. So he knows that somewhere in John’s opening monologue, he’s going to mention Lebron and Kyrie specifically. Crack a few jokes at their expense, maybe. Still, the precognition doesn’t make it any less embarrassing when it happens halfway through the monologue.

“Okay,” John is saying onstage, “so I can’t host the ESPYs and just _not_ bring up one of the biggest stories that happened in sports this year. I am, of course, talking about Lebron James and Kyrie Irving.”

As if on cue, the crowd starts clapping and cheering. Kyrie sees the big screen pan to live footage of him and Lebron in the audience, and doesn’t even have to feign the way he blushes to high heavens. He does what’s expected of him, then; he turns to bury his face in Lebron’s shoulder, embarrassed, and clutches at the sleeve of Lebron’s suit jacket. The burning tips of Kyrie’s ears are just the icing on top. He feels Lebron’s body shake minutely when he chuckles.

“Congratulations to the happy couple!” John continues, and the cheering gets even louder. He waits for a suitable amount of time to pass before he moves on. “But speaking of things that we all knew would happen– how about Golden State clinching the championship again, huh?”

And just like that, the center of attention seamlessly shifts away from them. Kyrie lets himself breathe out a sigh of relief, quickly pulling away from Lebron. He looks back up at the screen, keeping his gaze there even though he senses Lebron’s eyes lingering on the side of his face for several moments.

The rest of the show is pretty uneventful. Kyrie claps at all the right spots and laughs at the jokes, but his mind is a thousand miles away from the venue. He musters up a smile that probably doesn’t look very lively when Lebron won’t stop sending him worried glances throughout the evening.

He’s relieved when the whole thing finally ends. He stands up along with the rest of the audience and stretches his legs after two hours spent sitting. Stephen, who had been sitting in the row in front of them, immediately turns around and starts chattering about the afterparty.

It sounds like fun, but Kyrie would really rather just go home, eat some ice-cream, and have a nice pity party by himself at the moment. Lebron knocks his elbow lightly to get his attention, and Kyrie turns.

“You going?” Lebron asks, his hands stuffed in his pockets. That doesn’t hide how his shoulders droop, however, like he already knows what Kyrie is going to say.

“Actually, I’m kind of beat,” Kyrie replies with an apologetic smile. He feels slightly guilty, for some reason. “I think I’m just gonna take the car back.” He pauses, and then hurries to add, “I can call an Uber if you need the car later.”

Lebron stares at him, looking conflicted, but Kyrie can’t glean much else from his facial expression. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Actually, I was thinking the same thing myself. Don’t really feel like going out tonight.” He tilts his head at Kyrie casually, “we can ride back together?”

Kyrie narrows his eyes at him. Lebron just smiles beatifically, but Kyrie can see right through him, okay. He’s planning something. “Sure,” Kyrie replies slowly. He doesn’t wait before turning on his heel and starting towards the exit.

They must make a somewhat comical sight, with Kyrie leading the way almost angrily and Lebron half a step behind him, strolling along leisurely with his hands stuffed in his pockets. They’re a quarter of the way down the red carpet when Lebron breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, “are you going to tell me what’s been bothering you?”

Kyrie stiffens, but doesn’t slow his stride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies.

Lebron doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Kyrie is just about to rejoice the fact that maybe Lebron is letting him off the hook, when he wraps one hand around Kyrie’s bicep.

He abruptly speeds up, and in the blink of an eye he ends up in front of Kyrie, pulling him forward by his arm. His movements are not rough, per se, but forceful.

Kyrie stares up at the side of Lebron’s face, bewildered, and tries not to stumble. “Wh– Lebron, what are you doing?”

Lebron just continues marching forward, eyes straight ahead. “I think we need to talk,” he says in lieu of an answer, and Kyrie sighs.

He knew this was coming, but not this soon. And he certainly wouldn’t have imagined these circumstances– who would have thought that he’d be wearing a $6000 dollar suit when he got his heart broken?

The chauffeur is leaning against the limousine, smoking, when they walk up to the car. He notices them and quickly stubs out his cigarette, but Lebron waves a hand at him. “Brandon, can you come back in about thirty minutes? Thanks.”

Brandon looks surprised for a second, then nods quickly and gives them a knowing look. He flips another cigarette out of his pack and wanders off along the sidewalk without a word.

Lebron pulls open the car door and slides inside, pulling Kyrie along with him. They end up next to each other in the backseat, about half a meter of space between them. When they’re both settled down, Lebron turns to him expectantly.

Kyrie briefly considers playing the silent game until one of them breaks, but he knows deep down that isn’t the solution. “What do you want?” He asks sulkily instead. Not _much_ better, but still.

Lebron looks at him earnestly. “I just want to know what’s wrong,” he says, “you’ve been acting weird all night.”

Kyrie mulls this over. He opens his mouth, “nothing’s wro–”

“Bullshit.” Lebron cuts him off, but his voice is gentle. He scoots closer and puts a large hand on Kyrie’s knee. “Come on, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

Kyrie can’t help but melt a little at the pet name. He puffs out his cheeks and frowns to himself, and then up at Lebron. “You’re not going to let this one go, are you?” He asks.

Lebron smiles sheepishly, but his eyes are intent. “Don’t think so, no,” he replies.

Kyrie sucks in a breath. He has to tear his eyes away from Lebron’s, and stares down at his own hands, which are clenched into tight fists. A long moment passes before he speaks again, his voice coming out as small as he suddenly feels. “I want to be honest with you, but I…I don’t want you to hate me.”

There’s the sound of rustling next to him, before his chin gets taken between a thumb and pointer finger and his face is turned so that he’s looking into Lebron’s eyes again. “I could never hate you,” Lebron says softly.

Kyrie’s heart skips a beat. He bites the inside of his cheek as he stares up into Lebron’s beautiful eyes and decides– fuck it. He’s just going to have to rip the band-aid off. It’ll hurt, but at least he won’t have any more regrets.

He shifts so that he’s facing Lebron. “Okay,” he starts slowly, “I’m going to be completely honest with you.” He pauses, probably for a longer amount of time than is natural. Lebron doesn’t do anything other than wait patiently, however.

“Lebron,” Kyrie says. He feels his mouth moving but his brain almost doesn’t register that he’s actually talking out loud, when he finally blurts it out:

“I’m in love with you.”

He quickly drops his eyes to stare fixedly at the knot of Lebron’s tie, too scared to watch his reaction in real time. “I know I was acting weird,” Kyrie starts rambling, fruitless attempts to delay the inevitable rejection. “I’m really sorry. It’s just that, you know, the past few months were like a dream come true for me, and I guess I just hated the idea of having to snap back to reality.”

Kyrie winces. “Wow, that sounded pretty pathetic, didn’t it? I totally understand if you feel really weirded out by this, I mean who _wouldn’t_ be, so–”

“Kyrie.” Lebron’s voice reverberates low in his chest, and Kyrie immediately shuts up. “Look at me.”

A few seconds pass in which Kyrie doesn’t move a single hair, and Lebron’s hand underneath his chin comes back at full force to tilt his head up. His breath gets caught in his throat when he meets Lebron’s eyes. They’re sparkling with something– but what? Anger? Disgust? Alarm? Kyrie can’t tell from this distance.

As if reading his mind, Lebron wraps an arm around Kyrie’s waist and tugs him until he has no choice other than to lift up slightly from his seat– only to get promptly pulled into Lebron’s lap.

Kyrie’s knees land on either side of Lebron’s hips, and his hands settle on Lebron’s broad shoulders in an effort to steady himself. His face just about goes up in flames when he realizes their position. He’s straddling Lebron’s lap pretty suggestively, and if he just moved forward a tiny bit his ass would be pressed right on top of Lebron’s di–

 _Okay._ He’s not going there. He’s not. He takes a deep breath, and through some miracle or another, somehow manages to string together a coherent sentence. “Bron,” he stutters, eyes wide, “what are you doing?”

Lebron brings one hand up to caress the side of Kyrie’s face. He holds him like he’s something delicate and fragile, like he’s something...valuable, maybe. Kyrie finds himself transfixed, unable to look away from Lebron’s eyes, and he realizes with a jolt that the emotion he had seen isn’t anger, or disgust, or dismay.

It’s happiness.

Lebron brushes his thumb lightly over Kyrie’s cheekbone, and Kyrie can hardly believe this. He watches Lebron open his mouth–

“I love you, too.”

A beat. A soft exhale against the side of his face.

There’s a loud ringing in Kyrie’s ears. “You _what?_ ” He asks dumbly.

Lebron smiles fondly at him. “I love you,” he repeats softly.

“You know, sometimes I think that I called you ‘sweetheart’ that first time in front of all those cameras on purpose. Or partially on purpose, anyway. I think I wanted to see what it would be like for people to think that you’re mine, at least for a little while. I didn’t know it would lead to, all of this, but,” he gestures vaguely, but Kyrie knows what he’s talking about.

Kyrie blinks, stunned by the confession. “Well, I’m glad it did,” he says.

“Me too,” Lebron replies. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, both lost in their own thoughts, when Lebron speaks up again. “I never thought of myself as particularly subtle, though,” he says thoughtfully. “Remember that time we went to the park after dinner?” Kyrie nods bemusedly, wondering where this is going. “Well, you started eating this popsicle, and all I could think about was you sucking my co–”

Kyrie quickly slaps a hand over Lebron’s mouth. He wants to shift uncomfortably, but considering where he’s all pressed up against, he wisely decides against it. “You really had to ruin the moment like that, huh?” He says, trying to sound unimpressed, but his burning face probably doesn’t help.

Lebron just grins at him, joyful and uninhibited, and Kyrie’s heart melts like ice-cream on a summer day.

Lebron is warm and solid all around him, but Kyrie can’t help but want to pinch himself just to see if he’s dreaming. He can’t seem to find it in himself, however, to take his hands off of Lebron for even a second. So he goes for the next best thing, instead.

He leans in, and kisses Lebron.

It probably takes half a second at most before Lebron starts kissing back, yet Kyrie’s heart jumps in his throat all the same, afraid he’s misread the situation somehow.

Then Lebron slips his tongue into Kyrie’s mouth, and all bets are off.

He licks into Kyrie’s mouth relentlessly and Kyrie whimpers at the back of his throat as his knees go weak, even though he’s very much sitting down. His hands slide down to clutch at the lapels of Lebron’s suit jacket, just trying to keep up as the kiss grows progressively dirtier. A thin string of saliva connects their mouths when they break apart briefly for air.

Lebron groans approvingly as Kyrie nips playfully at his bottom lip, arm tightening around Kyrie’s waist and pulling him in even closer. It’s kind of a bad idea, but Kyrie can’t stop his hips from grinding down. He moans around the kiss at the delicious friction it brings, and repeats the motion against his better judgement.

“Kyrie,” Lebron pulls back to growl in a warning tone.

“What?” He whines, hips still moving on their own accord. He vaguely registers that he’s also in effect rubbing his ass against Lebron’s crotch.

Lebron’s pupils are blown wide as he raises one arm behind Kyrie to check his watch. “We only have about fifteen minutes until Brandon’s back,” he says, voice gruff. “You don’t want to start something you can’t finish.”

Kyrie considers this, and sits back on his haunches when he gets a brilliant idea. He bites his lip coyly, trailing his hand down Lebron’s chest. “How about we make good on that fantasy of yours?”

Lebron’s eyes widen, then darken fascinatingly fast. “Yeah?” He rasps, thumb swiping over Kyrie’s bottom lip almost disbelievingly. “You want my cock in your mouth?”

Kyrie sucks the finger into his mouth and hitches his hips forward. “Want it so bad,” he says, words slightly slurred around Lebron’s thumb.

“Show me how bad, baby,” Lebron murmurs, pressing down on the flat of Kyrie’s tongue pointedly, and Kyrie moans his agreement loudly.

He slithers down the length of Lebron’s body until he’s kneeling on the carpeted floor of the limousine. The bulge in Lebron’s slacks is mouthwatering just to look at, and Kyrie makes quick work of the belt and zipper in his way. Soon enough, he finds himself faced with Lebron’s cock straining against the fabric of his boxer-briefs.

Kyrie leans in to mouth at the thick outline of Lebron’s dick through his underwear. There’s the clean scent of laundry detergent and an underlying musk that is pure alpha– Kyrie can’t get enough of it. He reaches out and pulls the hem of Lebron’s boxers down, the elastic snapping below his balls.

Lebron’s cock finally springs free. Kyrie stares at it; it’s– for lack of a better word –beautiful. It truly is. It’s a beautiful cock. Precome glistens at the head, and a long vein follows the underside. It’s huge, too, definitely in proportion with the rest of Lebron’s body. Kyrie swipes his tongue over his bottom lip hungrily.

“Like what you see?” Lebron is smirking when Kyrie looks back up at him.

Instead of responding verbally, Kyrie leans forward and takes the tip into his mouth. He moans at the taste and swirls his tongue lewdly, eliciting a groan from above him. Lebron’s cock is too big for him to take all at once so he inches down slowly, making up with the residual with his hand around the base. Kyrie breathes heavily through his nose as he sinks lower, saliva escaping the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” Lebron says slowly, stroking at the shape of his dick in Kyrie’s cheek, one hand cupped around Kyrie’s jaw. “You look so fuckin’ hot like this, you have no idea.”

Kyrie whines around Lebron’s cock and takes him deeper until he’s hitting the back of his throat. He gags a little and tears spring to his eyes, so he pulls off an inch or so. He looks up at Lebron through the thick curtain of his lashes, which are slightly clumped together with moisture.

Lebron swears when they make eye contact. Kyrie hadn’t known it was possible, but he feels Lebron’s dick swell even further in his mouth. “Jesus,” Lebron groans. He’s looking at Kyrie like he can’t believe he’s real, “this is where you belong, yeah, kitten? On your knees, so eager and pretty for me…”

Kyrie pulls off of Lebron’s cockhead with a loud, obscene pop. He doesn’t break eye contact as he moves down and slowly traces the vein with his tongue. He licks his lips when he gets to the tip again. “You taste good,” he mumbles.

Lebron looks like his brain is leaking out of his ears, so Kyrie doesn’t wait for a reply before sinking back down. He’s able to go deeper this time, and relaxes his throat muscles the best he can. He swallows around Lebron’s dick, who makes a noise that almost sounds pained.

Lebron’s face is a bit blurry through the physiological tears pooling in Kyrie’s eyes, but he can faintly make out his blissed out expression. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Lebron says, voice low and hot, “you can take a little more, can’t you?”

Kyrie makes a needy noise at the praise, eager to please Lebron. It’s a second before he feels Lebron place a hand on the back of his head and push him down just the slightest bit. He almost gags again, but takes a deep breath and tries to relax instead. He closes his eyes, savoring the warm weight of Lebron’s cock in his throat.

“That’s it,” Lebron is saying soothingly, “you’re being such a good boy.”

Kyrie whimpers when he hears the nickname. He faintly remembers that they probably don’t have much time left until they’ll get interrupted, and begins to bob his head up and down in earnest at a faster pace than before. Lebron murmurs sweet nothings and endearments and praise to Kyrie the entire time, idly thumbing over the sensitive skin of his throat.

After a few more minutes, Lebron’s hips thrust upwards like he can’t help himself, and Kyrie realizes that he must be getting close. “Shit,” Lebron grunts when Kyrie deep throats him again, “I’m gonna come. You ready, babe?”

Kyrie moans and sucks harder, hoping that it’s an obvious enough ‘yes.’ “I don’t want you to swallow immediately,” Lebron says, “you got that?”

Kyrie is too impatient to question it, just nods his head frantically, and a second later Lebron finally, _finally_ comes. Cum floods Kyrie’s mouth almost overwhelmingly fast, but he remembers Lebron’s instructions and resists the urge to swallow it. The liquid is warm and bitter around his tongue, pumped full of alpha pheromones; there’s something incredibly arousing about it.

Lebron is breathing heavily when he stops coming, eyes dark as he watches Kyrie’s tear-streaked face. He taps a finger underneath Kyrie’s chin once, “open.”

It takes Kyrie a beat or two but he understands what Lebron is telling him to do, and opens his mouth as wide as he can without having all the cum drip out. He sees it out of the corner of his eye when Lebron’s dick twitches at the sight.

“Oh, yeah,” Lebron says hoarsely. He traces Kyrie’s swollen bottom lip, “that’s hot.”

The tips of Kyrie’s ears burn. God, he should’ve known that Lebron would be a kinky bastard. He feels strangely at peace, though, as Lebron simply stares at him for a while longer, looking satisfied with himself. “Okay, swallow,” he commands.

Kyrie, slightly relieved, immediately closes his mouth and swallows, though the taste lingers for a bit. He doesn’t even realize that he’s also hard until Lebron is hauling him back into his lap, and his erection presses up against Lebron’s abdomen. Lebron smirks and leans forward to lick his own taste out of Kyrie’s mouth, but Kyrie pushes him away with a hand on the chest a few moments later.

“My jaw hurts,” he complains sulkily as an explanation when Lebron looks at him questioningly.

Lebron grins at that. He kisses the side of Kyrie’s neck, “too big for ya, was I?” He asks smugly.

Kyrie groans and drops his forehead to rest on Lebron’s shoulder. “Shut up and get me off,” he says.

“Believe me when I say I’d love to,” Lebron says, pointedly squeezing Kyrie’s ass with one hand and making him gasp. “But Brandon’s going to be back anytime now. You can wait till we get home, yeah?”

Kyrie makes a needy noise at the back of his throat, grinding his hips against Lebron’s hard torso. He lifts his head back up to look at Lebron pleadingly. “But I want it now,” he whines.

He hears it when Lebron’s breath hitches. For the final blow, he bites down on his bottom lip which is already red and shiny and obscene, and Lebron’s pupils dilate rapidly. Fuck yeah, Kyrie is definitely going to get it, now–

A crisp knock sounds on the car window right next to them, and they both jump. Lebron rolls it down slowly, revealing Brandon standing outside with his fist raised in another knock. Kyrie remembers too late that he’s still sitting in Lebron’s lap, arms winded around his neck, but Brandon looks anything but surprised by their position. More amused, if anything.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he says, grinning. “Should I come back later?”

Lebron sighs good-naturedly. “Nah, thanks for waiting, Brandon,” he replies. “Can you just take us back to my place?”

Brandon nods, straightening back up. He makes to start towards the driver’s door, and Kyrie calls out to him through the window, “feel free to speed a little!”

A moment later, they hear Brandon’s voice, slightly tinier than it was before: “You got it, boss!” And they look at each other, and both crack up.

*

Almost an entire week passes before either of them remember to call Melissa to tell her that the fake break-up is off.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says over the phone, sounding relieved. “Honestly, I was counting on this happening, so I didn’t actually bother doing much preparation for a break-up anyways.”

That renders both Lebron and Kyrie speechless for several moments. Melissa laughs, voice going all fuzzy and static-y at the edges. “But seriously, I’m happy for you guys!” She says, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’m absolutely swamped with paperwork. Congrats again.”

The line promptly goes dead, and they gape down at the phone. Kyrie sighs. “Why does it feel like everybody knew we were going to get together before us?”

“I don’t know,” Lebron says, troubled, “I guess we’re just really dense.” Kyrie pouts, but doesn’t deny it.

They go to Harrison Barnes’s wedding together a few weeks later, which is held on a lovely July afternoon in the Bay. A light summer breeze rustles the treetops and the wedding venue by the beach looks beautiful in the dimming sunset. The reception is going strong, the room filled with sounds of laughter and conversation. Kyrie is sitting at a table with Stephen, both of them nursing drinks as they look out at the jovial dance floor.

Kyrie takes a much-needed breath when he’s done talking and sips at his cocktail. Across from him, Stephen is frowning over the rim of his glass.

“So what you’re telling me is,” Stephen starts slowly after a moment, “you and Lebron have been faking everything as a publicity stunt?”

Kyrie nods. “Yep,” he says.

“And _now_ you’re actually dating?”

“Exactly.”

Stephen taps a finger against his chin thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at Kyrie. “Hmm,” he muses, “ahh, well.” He seems to finally make up his mind and slaps the table resolutely. “You know what, I still maintain that you guys have been virtually married since, like, 2015.”

Kyrie makes an indignant gesture in the air with the hand that’s holding his drink. “No,” he counters, “that’s you and Klay.”

Stephen, to his credit, actually appears to mull this over. “Okay, maybe,” he concedes. “But still. You and Lebron have always been a close second.”

Kyrie snorts. “I think that honor belongs to Kyle and Demar. Or those two over there.” He tilts his head in the direction of where Kevin and Russell are slow dancing, even though the band is enthusiastically playing Hey Ya at the moment.

“Damn,” Stephen says, blinking at them in surprise. “When did _those_ two kiss and make up?”

“I think literally thirty minutes ago.” Kyrie makes a face. “I walked in on them making out in the bathroom earlier– what I would give to unsee that image.”

Stephen looks faintly horrified, but also fascinated. “Wow, Kevin works fast.”

“Just wait till the media gets wind of it,” Kyrie clicks his tongue vaguely disapprovingly.

“Speaking of,” Stephen leans forward and Kyrie immediately knows he’s about to dish something juicy. “You know what I heard the other day? Apparently there was a–”

“Baaaby,” Lebron’s loud voice cuts Stephen off midway. Both him and Kyrie turn to see Lebron approaching their table in long strides, an entertained-looking Dwyane trailing a few steps behind. Lebron has a goofy smile hanging at the corners of his lips, and his eyes are fixed on Kyrie as he walks.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?” Kyrie greets. He feels his own eyes crinkle when he smiles affectionately.

“Dance with meee,” Lebron says, dragging out the ‘e’ sound slightly petulantly, and Kyrie’s eyebrows raise.

“Are you drunk?” He realizes, amused.

Lebron comes to a stop in front of where he’s sitting and reaches down. He doesn’t say anything as he takes Kyrie’s hand, tugging until Kyrie obliges and stands up. “Come on,” Lebron says instead of answering the question. “Pleeease? I want to dance with you.” He sounds like a little kid asking for candy.

Kyrie looks at Dwyane in equal parts bewilderment and amusement. Dwyane just grins; “Sorry,” he says completely unapologetically, “I probably should’ve stopped him after the fifth gin and tonic.”

Lebron bends down to bring his mouth right next to Kyrie’s ear. “Pretty please?” He rasps, the childish phrase at odds with the gravelly quality of his voice.

And then he starts to suck Kyrie’s earlobe into his mouth, and Kyrie yelps and quickly pulls back. He looks up at Lebron, who is now pouting at him, and sighs fondly. He tries not to roll his eyes, winding his arms around Lebron’s neck. “Fine, take me away, stud,” he says, only semi-sarcastically.

Lebron’s face lights up at that. He wraps an arm around Kyrie’s waist, and starts dragging him towards the dance floor. “Have fun, you two!” Stephen calls at their retreating backs.

Lebron leads them to a spot near the center of the floor. His expression is focused as he painstakingly arranges them into the ‘correct’ positions. Kyrie ends up with Lebron’s palm splayed against his lower back; his right hand is resting on Lebron’s shoulder and his left hand is clasped in Lebron’s.

Thankfully, by the time Lebron is done, the band has switched to a song much more appropriate for slow dancing. They sway along to the music, and Kyrie lets himself melt into Lebron’s arms. There is a sweet, comfortable silence between them.

That is, until the beat of the song starts to pick up, and Lebron gets the bright idea to pull out some fancy moves. Kyrie just goes with it, letting Lebron lead the dance.

“I’m gonna dip you, ‘kay?” Lebron says next to his ear.

“Wait, wha–” Kyrie doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before he’s being dipped, one of Lebron’s arms wrapped around his waist. He has to imagine that they don’t exactly make it look very elegant.

He doesn’t know whether to feel more amused or embarrassed when Lebron pulls him back up. Looking at Lebron’s delighted expression, however, Kyrie decides to go with the former. He laughs and leans his head against Lebron’s shoulder. “What was that for?”

Kyrie acutely feels the up-and-down motion when Lebron shrugs. “Just for fun,” he replies. He pauses, then asks seriously, “it was fun, right? Did you think it was fun?”

Kyrie pulls back to grin up at him. “Yes, it was fun,” he reassures. “So much fun.”

Lebron looks both relieved and impressed with himself. “That’s right,” he says.

Kyrie hums. He slides a hand down from Lebron’s shoulder to his chest, playing with the knot of his tie faux-innocently. He looks up at Lebron through his lashes; “on that note,” he says, “I was actually thinking we could maybe get out of here so we can have a different kind of fun.”

Lebron’s eyes widen when he realizes what Kyrie means. Kyrie presses his body closer and smiles sweetly, “unless you’re too drunk, of course.”

“No!” Lebron immediately says. He coughs, “I mean, no, I’m not too drunk. Well, I’ll definitely sober up on the way home.”

“Yeah?” Kyrie says, and Lebron nods quickly. He grabs Lebron’s arm, starting towards the exit, but he only manages to take about one and a half steps before he’s being spun around and pulled back into a warm embrace.

Lebron leans down and kisses him, slow and sweet, right in the middle of the dance floor. Kyrie goes up on his tip-toes on instinct, hands clutching at Lebron’s biceps and head tilted back.

He blinks, dazed, when the kiss ends. Lebron grins at him smugly, “okay, now we can go. I just had to make sure that everyone knows you’re mine.”

The corners of Kyrie’s lips quirk up and he tries not to laugh. “I think they already knew, babe,” he says.

Lebron pouts. He tightens his arms around Kyrie’s waist, and leans back down for another kiss. It goes deeper this time, with Lebron sliding his tongue into Kyrie’s mouth. Kyrie whimpers, not having enough resolve to break away. They make out until somebody yells “get a room!” at them.

They’re both breathing hard when they pull back from one another. Kyrie reaches out and takes one of Lebron’s hands in his own. “Come on, let’s go,” he grins.

He turns around and starts walking. After a moment, he feels Lebron fall into step next to him, and everything is right.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment!!!!!! :D


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